“Any other comments?”
“One of the farmers—Mr Winston Gash—used a very offensive word, but I don’t think that means much, coming from him. Incidentally, I noticed something interesting about Gash. I’ll tell you what it was in a minute. Point three first, though.”
Love put a rick against one of his items.
“Stolen property,” he went on, “is what I gave out that I was looking into.”
The inspector recognized in this extreme case of ruptured syntax a sign that Love was preparing a revelation.
“Nobody gave actual instances, mind,” said Love, “but Mrs Whybrow said that there’s no end of stuff at old Loughbury’s place that doesn’t belong there. And she was hinting like mad that two of those who’d been done were the Cork-Bradden character and an old friend of ours.” He paused. “Guess who.”
“I really have no idea, Sid. Tell me.”
“Pally Palgrove,” announced Love, with a touch of pride. “He keeps that café—the eight pounds a head one.”
“I should not have supposed,” said Purbright, “that Mr Palgrove was either wealthy enough or of sufficiently good taste to amass much worth stealing.”
“He married into money second time round—or so Bill Malley says.”
Purbright conceded the point; Sergeant Malley, the Coroners Officer, was the nearest thing to an infallible oracle that Flaxborough possessed.
“She was Cynthia Barraclough, wife of that hotel manager out at Brocklestone.”
“Ah, yes,” murmured Purbright, comfortably. It was pleasant when names dropped into place, like cards in a promising game of patience.
“Used to be a Wilson,” Love added. “It’ll be her money and what she got after the divorce that set them up. And she’ll have learned the catering side at her first husbands place.”
“The Neptune.”
“That’s right.”
Love recalled something. “I was going to tell you what I noticed about Gash—the big one, Winston. He’d been ignoring me and pretty well everyone else, but as soon as Mrs Whybrow started talking about people in the village who’d lost things, there he was—standing over her. To buy her a drink, or so he said. But she kept off the subject from then on.”
“Do you think he was threatening her?”
“In a way, yes. She’s not the sort of lady who’d change the subject just to be obliging.”
“Was she frightened?”
“Oh, no.” Love appeared to find the notion amusing.
Purbright had in his hand a pencil with which he gently tapped his lower lip from time to time. Now he held the pencil before him, like an artist sizing up proportions, and regarded its sharpened end dreamily.
“Tell me, Sid—before the general subject of stolen property was dropped, was there any mention by anybody of holy relics?”
“What you were on about before, you mean?”
Purbright saw that the question was a non-starter. (Love’s only brush with the occult had been his purchase, while on holiday in Cornwall with his young lady, of a Lucky Pixie Charm, which he had worn under his vest until his unlucky contraction of dermatitis a fortnight later.) He shook his head and said, never mind.
“Point five,” declared the sergeant.
And he told of his encounter with Sadie in the Barleybird lobby.
Purbright heard him out with reviving interest.
“Bernadette Croll,” the inspector said, dreamily. “Good lord.” Then, “Why on earth should the woman have supposed you were interested in Mrs Croll?”
“I didn’t get a chance to ask her.”
“Was she mentioned by anyone else you saw this morning?”
Love shook his head. “Only by Sadie. It’s Sadie Howell, by the way. Miss.”
“I expect Croll still farms at Mumblesby, does he?”
“Ben? Yes, he’s still there.”
“Not remarried?”
“No.”
“No, I suppose Bernadette would take some following.”
Love looked pleased, then prim. “She had a terrible reputation.”
“Not at the inquest, she didn’t. The talk was all of religious mania, not nympho.”
“You weren’t here,” Love said, a little defensively. “You were on holiday. Superintendent Larch came over from Chalmsbury.”
“Yes,” said Purbright. “He did, and I was. But I did read the depositions afterwards.”
“Mr Larch,” said Love, “wasn’t very keen on standing in for other people.”
“Understandable,” said Purbright.
“I remember him trying to push Bill Malley around.”
“Now, Sid, the superintendent was always a most conscientious officer.”
“Bill let him get on with it,” said the sergeant, carelessly.
“Of course. So?”
Love shrugged. “Nothing.”
“Anyway, he’s retired now.”
There was a long pause. Purbright looked thoughtful.
“Who took that inquest? The regular coroner, wasn’t it?”
“Mr Cannon. Yes, it was.”
“Open verdict?”
“Yes.”
“The Croll family...weren’t they represented by Mr Loughbury?”
“I think they were. Yes, I remember him sitting in court with Ben Croll. And when you say family, that’s it—just Ben; there aren’t any others.”
“Your friend the bar lady—Miss Howelclass="underline" she wasn’t called as a witness, was she?”
Love said no.
“Then I wonder why she should think of her child in connection with Mrs Croll. I don’t remember anything about a boy giving evidence.”
“There wasn’t a kid at the inquest. Mr Larch did some interviewing beforehand, though.” Love added: “He was an expert at not believing.”
“Perhaps Bill will know. I’ll have a word with him later.”
Love waited, retriever-like. Not for the first time, the inspector was visited with the ridiculous temptation to pat his head.
• • •
Mrs Zoe Claypole-Loughbury had been spending the morning much more constructively than might have been expected of so recent a widow.
At ten o’clock she telephoned, and was shortly afterwards attended by, Mr Clapper Buxton, confidential clerk of Loughbury, Lovelace and Partners. In the interval before his arrival, she made two further telephone calls. The first was to Mr Harrington, manager of Gallery Ganby, to whom she wished to entrust the compilation of an inventory and valuation. Mr Harrington said he would be delighted to comply with her wishes; might he call that evening and discuss preliminary arrangements? Zoe said, sure, he could please himself, so long as he made a proper job of it and didn’t muck about too long. Then she rang the Flaxborough Citizen to say she wanted to insert a Thanks notice, worth quite a few quid, and would they send somebody over pronto so that the words were got right.